


I Will, Tonight

by DaisukiRose, SuicidalCatsNinthLife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Beginning - Season 1, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, Gen, How do I tag?, I Blame Tumblr, I Tried, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8783689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisukiRose/pseuds/DaisukiRose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuicidalCatsNinthLife/pseuds/SuicidalCatsNinthLife
Summary: Named after, but not based upon, the song I Will, Tonight by The Brobecks 
 Sherlock Holmes was just trying to read. He had his nose in his book, engrossed in some adventure tale or another that was completely and totally impossible but entertaining nonetheless, minding his own business when some git, some complete lunatic, walked up to him and began to speak.	This utter dimwit made a few awkward noises in the back of his throat, which Sherlock promptly ignored, reaching a hand to fluff at his scarf around his neck. Was it incredibly cold in here, or was this man’s truncated IQ lowering the temperature? “Erm, sir?” The git said again. “Could I steal this chair?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> First work for Sherlock, written at 3 AM, fuelled by a cup of pomegranite tea, and really, really badly written. Enjoy. IDK.
> 
> THANK YOU TO MY WONDERFUL BETA (who is also my brother) SUICIDALCATSNINTHLIFE!

Sherlock Holmes was just trying to read. He had his nose in his book, engrossed in some adventure tale or another that was completely and totally impossible but entertaining nonetheless, minding his own business when some git, some complete lunatic, walked up to him and began to speak.

This utter dimwit made a few awkward noises in the back of his throat, which Sherlock promptly ignored, reaching a hand to fluff at his scarf around his neck. Was it incredibly cold in here, or was this man’s truncated IQ lowering the temperature? “Erm, sir?” The git said again. “Could I steal this chair?”

Sherlock looked up, and if looks could kill then this man would surely be dead. He was leaning heavily on a cane, a coffee in his other hand, and an embarrassed smile on his face. His hands were worn, fingers thick from use, manual labour by the looks of it. His eyes were set in a peculiar manner, one Sherlock could almost place… ah. “Iraq or Afghanistan?” Sherlock asked, returning his eyes to the book now that he’d solved the stranger’s mystery.

“I’m sorry?” The man asked, looking incredibly confused. 

“Where did you serve, Iraq or Afghanistan?” Sherlock repeated, slowing his speech in a manner he found fitting for someone obviously of diminutive intellect. 

“Afghanistan.” The stranger said quickly. “How did you..? Never mind, can I grab this chair? All the rest are taken.”

Sure enough, with a quick scan of the café, Sherlock saw all the other chairs taken by people on dates, people brooding over bad dates of the past, the university crowd freshly out of class, and a few errant tourists. “No.” Sherlock decided, peering at the chair in question, upon which his feet were perched. “I’m using it.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but-“

“You keep saying you’re sorry,” Sherlock pointed out, “But you’re not sorry for what you should be. You’re interrupting my criticism of this book.”

“Why, it’s Tolkien, it’s a classic!” the man protested. “Now, can I have this chair, my leg, it’s-“

“A psychosomatic limp.” Sherlock said again, barely glancing up. “You got injured, you healed, you held onto the trauma. You’ll find that you can walk right fine without the cane, and it doesn’t actually hurt, so if that’s all, then could you run along? As for the book, it’s full of incongruities. You just have to be intelligent enough to see them.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but-“

“Sherlock,” He interrupted the growingly flustered man. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, if you must.”

“Okay, Sherlock then, I don’t know what kind of fluff you’ve just said about my leg, but I got shot in Afghanistan, now could I please have that chair? It’s killing me.” The git repeated again.

“God, don’t stress yourself over it!” Sherlock rolled his eyes, removing his feet from the chair. “There you go, do sit, please, whatever it is that you want, just so long as you shut the hell up!”

The man was shocked into silence, but he sat anyways. He was sipping on his coffee, watching Sherlock as he read. “It’s rude to stare.” Sherlock mused over the top of his paperback as he picked up his own no-nonsense coffee, black, two sugars. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you?”

“She did.” The git said. 

“I feel at a disadvantage.” Sherlock said. “You know my name but I don’t know yours.”

“Watson.” The git said, appearing flustered as he corrected himself. “Er, John. John Watson.”

“Scintillating.” Sherlock decided, casting his eyes back to his novel in hopes that was as far as his conversation would go with this man. 

_No great leap for a man, but a leap in the dark. Straight over Gollum’s head he jumped, seven feet forward and three in the air; indeed, had he known it, he only just missed cracking his skull on the-_

“How did you know?” The git, John Watson, interrupted Sherlock’s reading once again. “About the war, I mean. How did you know I’d served?”

“The haircut.” Sherlock said simply. “The way you carry yourself, the cane was a dead giveaway. What kind of man your age walks with that much of a pronounced limp? What with the breadth of your shoulders and your stature, it was either a farming accident or a military wound. Your hair, god, it screams of the army!” Sherlock let out a puff of a laugh. “Either you grew up in a military family and never dropped the ideals _and_ managed to get yourself injured like that, or you’re freshly discharged. Only one of these things seemed applicable. There’s only two wars on, so… Afghanistan or Iraq? You’ve answered that question, though.”

John’s eyes widened as he listened to Sherlock spill on about such a complex realization without ever lifting his eyes from his book. “My god, that’s incredible!” John exclaimed, slamming his hand on the table in his excitement. “You’re incredible. Your sheer brainpower, it’s-“

“Astounding, I know.” Sherlock nodded. “I’ve been called worse, I suppose.”

John shook his head, wonder in his eyes before he collected himself. “Sorry, I’m supposed to be meeting someone, I should be looking for them. I’m getting a flatmate today.”

“221B Baker Street?” Sherlock asked. “I’m supposed to have met my new flatmate exactly 21 minutes ago, but he’s apparently late. My associates set me up with imbeciles, I swear…”

John chuckled nervously. “That’d be me, si- Sherlock.” He corrected himself. “I, uh, I couldn’t get a taxi, and I was on the other side of London, it was cr-“

“I know how traffic gets.” Sherlock waved his hand about as he closed his book without marking the page. “Cabbies are generally incompetent.” 

“Yeah,” John agreed, rubbing at his thigh, where Sherlock supposed he’d been shot. “Did you drive, or?”

“No, god, no, that’s expensive!” Sherlock said, sliding his book into his trenchcoat pocket as he stood up. “Taxis may be incompetent, but they’re efficient.” Sherlock glanced at his phone, scrolling through something and then absentmindedly handing John a £10 note. “Pay the tab, will you? Tip whatever’s left.”

John sighed, looking at the note as he stood and went to the counter. He pointed out their table with an eyeroll, sliding the bill across the counter. “Got yourself a tough one?” The waitress asked, a smirk on her face.

“You have no clue.” John sighed, leaning on his cane. 

“It’s okay, my husband’s like that, too. I understand.” She handed him the change, smiling, and took off behind the counter.

“He’s not my-“ He sighed, cutting himself off as he deposited the change into the tip jar. There was no point, there wasn’t anyone to justify himself to anymore. “Not my husband.” He muttered.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock and John caught a taxi to Baker Street, stepping out in front of the flat in question. “The bakery next door is marvelous,” Sherlock said as he opened the door. “Mrs. Hudson!” He called. “Mrs. Hudson, where are you?”

“In the kitchen, dear!” An older woman’s voice floated around the corner, followed by a pensive looking old lady with a teatray. “Sherlock, dear, your flat is a mess, you really should consider picking up before you invite over company! Who is this?”

“This is my friend.” Sherlock stated simply, busying himself with hanging up his coat. 

“Er, flatmate.” John said awkwardly. “I’m sharing the flat until I can get my own.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson said with a knowing nod, just as Sherlock’s phone went off.

“He can have the upstairs bedroom.” Sherlock decided as he pulled out his phone, opening his text.

“The upstairs bedroom?! I never!” Mrs. Hudson protested, eyes drawn to John’s cane.

“Brilliant!” Sherlock sprung up, grabbing his coat again with a glint in his eyes. “Get settled in, there’s been a homicide!” With that, he was out the door and gone in a flash.

“I-“ Mrs. Hudson started to talk, and then cut herself off. “It’s okay, my husband was just like yours.” She nodded, smiling. “I’ll get you a cuppa tea, yeah?”

“Not my husband,” John rolled his eyes, repeating the sentence for the second time that day. He had a feeling it was going to get old living here, and fast.


End file.
